


Steam

by bramletabercrombie



Category: Colbert Report RPF, Fake News RPF
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Power Imbalance, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramletabercrombie/pseuds/bramletabercrombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An awkward interaction with a co-worker reminds Stephen of what it's like to be at the bottom of the chain of command.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steam

Stephen squinted into the mirror as he peered at his reflection, which appeared fuzzier than usual. He had increased the prescription of his glasses just last year; was it possible his vision had deteriorated further already? No sooner had the despair begun to sink in than he realized it was simply the fog from the shower, which, after all, he'd only shut off moments earlier. He opened the door and cooler air rushed in from his office, to which the steamy bathroom was attached. The fog persisted. Intending to wipe down the mirror, he reached to unwind the towel from around his waist, but stopped at the last second when he caught a reflected glimpse of a figure standing behind him in the office doorway. 

"Sorry, Mr. Colbert! Only just got your suit back from the tailor—I'll leave it right here. I'm very sorry. Have a good show." Anna, the new wardrobe stylist, hung the suit up in the office closet and hurried out, in an almost passable impression of someone who wasn't flustered.

"Um, thanks!" Stephen called after her, doing about as well with the same impression. He wondered how awkward he should be feeling about the interaction. It would have been a non-incident with his former stylist, Jackie, an old pro who had worked with him since the show began, and who would probably have just jokingly leered at him. But Anna, who had been hired when Jackie left to start her own fashion agency, was a young, quiet theater tech student, obviously still intimidated by the fast-paced environment and high-profile guests. It occurred to him that she might think he had arranged the situation on purpose, and he inwardly cringed at the idea of actually being the kind of lecherous boss he occasionally lampooned on the show.

He closed and locked both doors, just to overdo it, and tried to return to his pre-show shaving ritual, but couldn't help feeling uncomfortable about Anna. Contemplating what she had stuttered, he was distracted by the pleasant recollection of why the suit needed last-minute tailoring, which was because he had recently lost eight pounds, thanks to a new workout routine. For a moment, he pondered his own accomplishment and ran the razor deftly over the stubble on his left cheek. Then he realized that it must have been Anna who had noticed that the suit needed an adjustment. He felt suddenly and senselessly self-conscious about the fact that part of her job required her to monitor subtle changes in his physique. He sighed and rinsed the razor. It was odd to know that someone he barely noticed paid so much attention to him. Not that he hadn't noticed her at all, since he knew, for example, that she was very pretty. Not that he specifically _had_ noticed it, he just hadn't _not_ noticed it. 

He shaved along his jaw and tried not to think about what if she had come a second later and encountered her boss, a famous, powerful celebrity in her eyes, with a towel in his hand but none around his waist. He wondered what changes would be made to her concept of his physique _then_. He remembered he wasn't supposed to be wondering that, then shaved his upper lip, then wondered how long she would have stood there if he hadn't noticed, then got dressed and headed down to the studio, and then was sent back up by his makeup artist to shave the other half of his face.

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

 

After the show's taping had wrapped up, Stephen returned to his office, exhausted but with heart pounding, like he'd pulled a caffeine-fueled all-nighter. At this point in his daily routine was Stephen's second shower, ostensibly for the purpose of crumbling the hard shell of gel in his hair, but more for converting the performance high into the relaxed bliss of a job well done. 

He had found much more success in shutting out the awkward incident during the taping, but was reminded again immediately upon seeing his waiting towel. He stripped down and got in the shower, appreciating the calming sensation of the water. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to picture Anna more clearly, her flaws muted and assets exaggerated in his memory's vision. It quickly became obvious how little he actually knew about her as he tried to mentally recreate her appearance, her voice, her personality. Had he finally gotten too wrapped up in himself, over all these years, to pay proper attention to his co-workers? Was he so arrogant nowadays as to consider the lesser, little people to be below his concern? He had served his own time back in the day, in various positions for interns and underlings, and could still remember the indignation of the contradiction in how he felt—like an important cog in the machine—and how he got treated—like a non-entity.

Stephen kneaded his temples as he struggled with the Anna conundrum. He was just _busy;_  he knew that wasn't a cop-out, just the truth. He had too little time and too much responsibility to attend to every detail (that's what he paid other people for!), even when those details were lovely petite young women who probably admired him, and were probably grateful to him for providing them with such a great job opportunity. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ to have to value people according to what they could to for him, to prioritize human beings like tasks on a to-do list. But that seemed to be how things worked out for the last—

He heard a faint knock on the door that lead from the hallway to his office. He froze, wondering if the shy girl, who knew his post-show routine, could really be that bold. Of course, maybe she wasn't really shy in the slightest, what did he know? His heart rate crept up as the implications of the knock revealed themselves to him, and he felt a spreading warmth that had nothing to do with the hot water pouring down on him. An unsuccessful croaking first attempt, then he cleared his throat and yelled, "Just a minute!"

He tried to consider his options. Suspecting it would unfairly influence his thinking, he was nonetheless unwilling to stop a hand from drifting down to the concentrated center of the new warmth. He stroked, barely, gently, and imagined welcoming Anna into his office. Would she be the new, bold, unknown Anna, taking charge and starting right in with the seduction? Or would she be the demure Anna he thought he sort of knew, with downcast eyes and a flimsy excuse for her presence? Would he be able to take the first step in that case? He thought of harassment lawsuits and of her paycheck. He thought of the white lies that peppered his marriage, just as they did any good marriage—undeserved compliments, plans for surprise parties—and wondered if this could possibly join their ranks. 

His muscles were tensed, augmenting the slick, smooth pleasure that was growing and that he could no longer ignore. Nor could he ignore what he was sure he now remembered of her quiet obedience, her lingering eyes, her firm body. He couldn't believe what was about to do or let happen, how stupid and clichéd it was. He was full and hard, and scared, but ready and very much in control. Forcing himself to still the delicious motion, he turned off the shower, wrapped the towel around his waist, left the steamy room, and walked to the door—

"Oh, hey, Stephen," said Andrew, his head film editor, as he quirked an eyebrow at the sight of all the water dripping onto the carpet. "Just wanted to ask a quick question about the pre-taped bit for tomorrow. But you know, if you're already headed home it can wait. I'll just catch you later, have a good night."

Stephen stared, wide-eyed, as Andrew retreated down the hall. "Goodnight," he echoed, and quietly closed the door again.


End file.
